Everything That Kills Me
by MeganCK
Summary: {CLOSED} Panem is a cruel place, and everyone knows it. The people of the Capitol don't understand the danger of the games we play, and they prove this with their eagerness for the 103rd Hunger Games, which promise more blood and gore than ever before. But we keep on fighting, even though it will probably kill us in the end. Because everything that kills us makes us feel alive.
1. Prologue 1: In Cold Blood

**Hello, there, fanfiction readers and Hunger Games enthusiasts! Welcome to my SYOT! This chapter is one of a few prologues, all of which center around a Gamemaker. Please, for the love of god, read the rules and PM me all submissions. Any questions can go straight to my inbox, as well. Read on, fellow authors, and enjoy! (Reviews would be nice, too...)**

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_**THIS STORY IS AN AU. **_**There was no second rebellion. Enobaria won the third Quarter Quell. The Hunger Games continued, just as horrifying as before.**

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As a Gamemaker, Yasmin Crofter saw a lot of things. Despicable things, terrifying things, brutal things. And still, she loved every moment.

She had a sort of sick fascination with the Hunger Games. The idea of children killing each other for sport amused her. She knew that she should probably be horrified, but for Yasmin, it was the very opposite.

In front of her was the blueprint for the newest arena. The 103rd Games would be special, and Yasmin and the other Gamemakers would make sure of that.

"Now, then," said the man in front of her. Calvin Grommet was the Head Gamemaker, a title that Yasmin desired so desperately. She was next in line, after all, and she didn't think that slot suited her one bit, especially not after working so hard to become Calvin's right-hand woman, his most trusted advisor. It was why she was the only one that he'd come to about the arena's traps and tricks; he only trusted her input. "What shall we add?"

She smiled, attempting to look sweet and innocent. "Perhaps a few more mutts?"

Calvin nodded. "I suppose." He rubbed his balding head in frustration. "This is difficult work... I could use a drink."

Yasmin giggled, taking a clearly aimless comment and using it as her opportunity to strike. "Allow me, sir." She stood and walked into the next room, picking up a wine bottle and a vial of dark red liquid. Looking around to make sure that no one was watching, she poured a single drop of the red liquid into the wine, then pouring the wine into a fancy-looking glass.

She took another wine bottle, the one without the liquid in it. She poured a glass for herself–not from the first bottle, of course. That was reserved for Calvin. (And anyone else who stood in her way, but that wasn't a lot of people at all. She made sure that they knew their place.)

She walked back into the room where they were doing the planning, making sure that she knew which glass was which. "Only the finest for you, sir."

Calvin's thin lips curled into a smile as he took a sip. His smirk turned into a look of horror as he swallowed, choking on the contents of the glass.

Yasmin laughed and took a sip of her own, un-poisoned wine. "Are you enjoying it?" she teased, watching the Head Gamemaker in amusement.

Calvin grasped the edge of the table, dropping his glass so that it shattered on the hardwood floor, spilling toxic wine everywhere. He struggled to breathe, his eyes wide with terror.

"Y-you..." he gasped. "Y-you tricked... me... how... how c-could you?"

Yasmin looked into Calvin's eyes. "I want power. And there's no better way to get it than to claw my way to the top. And if you were in my path..." she shrugged, her smile full of malice. "Oh, well."

She grabbed him by the shirt and stood him up, his legs wobbly and his muscles tense. "Goodbye, Calvin," she said as she let go. Calvin fell to the floor, his head hitting a shard of glass from his shattered cup. Blood spilled out of the wound, and Yasmin laughed at the thought that his death would only be so much quicker.

She knelt down and felt the pulse on his neck, careful to avoid the still-warm blood, hoping that he was finally out of the way.

His pulse was silent. She had won.

Yasmin picked up the phone and dialed the emergency number.

"Hello, this is the Capitol Emergency Hotline, how may I help you?"

Yasmin faked a sob. "The Head Gamemaker... he's dead."

Someone gasped on the other line. "What? What happened?"

Yasmin made sure that her voice was shaky and her breathing was uneven, to give the illusion of crying. "He... we were having a drink and talking about the arena, and... he just collapsed... some of his wine glass cut his head... I think he might've had a heart attack or something..."

"Okay, okay," the person on the phone panicked. "We'll be right over... stay there!"

Yasmin hung up and laughed again. She'd done it, gotten rid of the competition. Surely, she'd be Head Gamemaker now. It wasn't like they could track her–the poison was untraceable, and very rare.

She took one look at Calvin's motionless body and smiled.

The odds were clearly in her favor.

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**So, there's the first prologue. I know that it's horribly short, but it's mostly just to give you a feel for my writing style and offer a bit of insight on Yasmin's character. No, it's not the last you'll see of her. Far from it.**

**Now, there's the matter of tributes, the most important part of any Hunger Games story. ****Before you submit, please read ALL of the following rules. They'll be on my profile, as well, along with a tribute list. I'll be sure to PM you when I receive your character, and I'll say what I think of them, and if any changes need to be made.**

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**1) FOLLOW THE FORM. I will not accept any OCs that are missing something. The things on the form are there for a reason, and I want no one disregarding them. **

**2) Mary Sue and Gary Stu characters will not be tolerated. (No Ebony Dark'ness Dementia Raven Ways.) For advice on how not to do this, check out ****Annabeth-TheTributeThatLived****'s guide to creating a character.**

**3) NO CLONES. I do not want Katnisses, Peetas, Finnicks, Johannas, etc. Creativity and uniqueness is something that I always take into account, and clones will not be accepted no matter what. **

**4) PMS ONLY. I once did a SYOC with reviews, and OH MY GOD, was it hectic. I couldn't keep track of any of the characters, and had to eventually make a list in the Doc Manager (that's still really disorganized). I DO NOT WANT TO GO THROUGH THAT AGAIN. Also, just to make my life easier, please label your PM 'ETKM: Character Name'. **

**5) I will say this once, and once only. There is only one victor. I need characters that can die in the bloodbath. Just know that once you send your character, that's it. I write their actions. Keep that in mind when submitting, please.**

**6)****Don't send me an abundance of District 2 girls who are ruthless and bloodthirsty. I want the tributes that are so out of the ordinary that I can't help but choose them. As stated above, I am looking for creativity. So... get creative! Show me what goes on in those wonderfully insane minds of yours!**

**7) Check the tribute list on my profile for filled slots. As soon as I can remember, I will update the page with all the tributes who've been accepted. **

**8) THIS IS NOT FIRST-COME FIRST-SERVE. I will NOT humor you because your tribute was first! I'll choose the best of the best, and ONLY the best of the best. One of two things will happen with each slot; I'll see an amazing character that I can't help but choose, or I'll get a bunch of good/okay characters that I'll need time to consider.**

**9) Do me a favor, will you? Don't pester me for updates or beg me to accept your character. I'm a thirteen-year-old girl with auditions and plays and homework. I can't promise quick updates, but I will try to give feedback on as many tributes as possible and update the list and the story as frequently as I can (Don't get your hopes up; that doesn't tend to be very often). **

**Well, that was a LOT of rules. On with the form!**

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**TRIBUTE FORM **

**BASIC**

**Name: **

**Age:**

**District: **

**Backup District (In case your preferred spot was full): **

**APPEARANCE**

**Eyes: **

**Hair: **

**Build:**

**Skin (doesn't have to be white):**

**Distinguishable Features (please be realistic):**

**PERSONALITY**

**Overview (details): **

**Quirks: **

**Fears (More than 1, please):**

**3+ Strengths (personality-wise): **

**3+ Weaknesses (personality-wise):**

**BACKSTORY**

**Overview (please be realistic, details):**

**Family: **

**Friends:**

**REAPING**

**Reaping Outfit:**

**Volunteered or Reaped?:**

**If volunteered, why? If reaped, what was their reaction?:**

**Token:**

**CAPITOL**

**Chariot Costume Ideas:**

**Interview Outfit: **

**Interview Angle:**

**TRAINING**

**What do they do?:**

**What do they present?:**

**Score:**

**3+ Strengths (in training):**

**3+ Weaknesses (in training):**

**GAMES**

**Bloodbath?:**

**Cornucopia?:**

**Allies?:**

**Strategy:**

**OTHER**

**Romance? (Just because you want it doesn't mean it'll happen):**

**Anything I should know?:**

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**I apologize for the insanely long form, but I feel like all of that stuff is necessary. Please FILL OUT ALL OF IT, and PM me your characters! May the odds be ever in your tribute's favor!**


	2. Tribute List

**I've decided to post the list here as well, just to make it easier to access. Just know that it's on my profile, too.**

**NOTE: Due to some glitches, I'm putting the credit for the tributes on my profile ONLY. They don't seem to show up here anymore.**

**As of 5/2/15: We have all of our tributes. I would like to sincerely thank everyone for their awesome submissions, and I can't wait to get writing!  
**

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**Tribute List (SUBJECT TO CHANGE)**

**District 1**

**-Boy: Aedan Prince Hematite, age 15**

**-Girl: Chardonnay Luton, age 17**

**District 2**

**-Boy: Meshindi Anthony, age 18**

**-Girl: Julianna "Jules" Rose, age 17**

**District 3**

**-Boy: Zairre "Zai" Cou, age 18**

**-Girl: Zenia Cerys, age 12**

**District 4**

**-Boy: Spynder Corbin, age 18 **

**-Girl: Anna-Marie Clear, age 17 **

**District 5**

**-Boy: Eliseo Markham, age 18**

**-Girl: Kathryn "Katie" Maibelle, age 14 **

**District 6**

**-Boy: Farren Windio, age 15 **

**-Girl: Hestia Hepburn, age 13 **

**District 7**

**-Boy: Dominick "Nick" Reece, age 18 **

**-Girl: Eleanor "Ellie" Ray, age 17 **

**District 8**

**-Boy: Jeremiah Paradise, age 17 **

**-Girl: Hazel Patch, age 18 **

**District 9**

**-Boy: Nicolas Wolwinds, age 14 **

**-Girl: ****Andromeda Willison, age 15**

**District 10**

**-Boy: Kattel "Kat" Holstein, age 13 **

**-Girl: Hali Verengo, age 15 **

**District 11**

**-Boy: Jackson Mereddy, age 12  
**

**-Girl: Daisy Mulberry, age 14 **

**District 12:**

**-Boy: Homeland "Homer" Favre, age 15**

**-Girl: Nanette "Netty" Fellin, age 17 **

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**As of 5/2/15: This SYOT is now closed. I would like to thank everyone very much for their submissions, and I hope that you will enjoy reading about these awesome characters!  
**


	3. Prologue 2: Secrets and Lies

**Wow, such positive feedback for so early on! I love hearing from you guys! Unfortunaltely, I still need tons of tributes, so send them in!**

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Yasmin sat in an armchair in the president of Panem's office, tapping her foot and checking her watch. She had been called here on 'urgent business,' and she hadn't been made Head Gamemaker yet. She was sure that she was summoned because she'd been caught.

All the same, though, she didn't really care. Calvin's plans for the 103rd Games were horrible, with no danger to the tributes other than their opponents. That wouldn't do at all.

_She _would be the Head Gamemaker, and a damn good one at that. Calvin was nothing compared to what _she_ could be.

The president walked in purposefully, his shoulders back and his head held high. Without a word of greeting, he sat down in the armchair across from Yasmin's and looked at her in silence, as if expecting her to speak.

"Is there a reason why I'm here, sir?" she asked, annoyed.

His expression remained solemn as he stared into Yasmin's eyes. "Of course. You have been called here to speak of the former Head Gamemaker, Calvin Grommet. You were there during his passing, yes?"

Yasmin nodded, keeping her composure. She wasn't about to correct the President and reveal herself; the real reason should be kept a secret. Bragging rights didn't apply to this.

"He had a supposed heart attack after taking a sip of wine. He dropped the glass, fell to the floor, and cut his head, only speeding up his death. A real shame, it was. He was a great man, a great Gamemaker, and... now he's gone. No one seems to know if the theorized cause of his death is true."

The president reached into his pocket, and pulled out a vial, filled with a dark red liquid.

The same liquid that Yasmin had put in Calvin's wine.

"I, however, have my own theories. Nightlock berries work in mere minutes, killing their victim without much of a fight. When made into liquid, they can be used as an untraceable poison."

He set the vial down on the arm of his chair, carefully so he wouldn't break it. "I don't suppose that you have an explanation for why this fatal poison was found in your wine cellar?"

Yasmin smiled. "Catching on yet, sir?"

He nodded. "You're absolutely mad, Miss Crofter. I like mad."

Yasmin laughed. "So, no arrest? No sentence? I'm getting off clean?"

For the first time that day, the president cracked a smile. It wasn't a joyful or playful smile, but one full of sinisterness and bloodlust. "As Head Gamemaker, I expect you to create the best Games that Panem has ever seen."

Yasmin stood and held out her hand. "It'll be a pleasure working for you, sir."

His smile vanished. "I did not say that you could rise."

She fell back into her chair, her smug smirk not leaving her face. She wasn't about to show any willingness to give in to orders. That was a job for a tribute escort, or a lesser Gamemaker.

"I have a request for you, Miss Crofter."

The statement took Yasmin by surprise. She wasn't expecting any input from the President, but if he had it, she'd be sure to put it to use.

The president looked her right in the eyes. They were almost devoid of emotion, completely blank. "Make them pay. Show them that the Capitol always wins, that the Districts are meant to bow down. Show no mercy."

Yasmin's eyes went to the vial of nightlock poison, her own secret weapon. She laughed. A single drop could bring down the strongest of beasts.

"I'm very good at not showing mercy, sir. I won't fail."

The President nodded. "For your sake, I hope that your words are true. If they aren't..." He held up the vial of poison, the dark red liquid sloshing around in the glass. "I have my own ways of punishment."

"Great, great." Yasmin stood, bored. "Got it. If I fail, it's a painful death for me, and blah, blah, blah. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have twenty-three early deaths to plan."

With that, she left the President's office, shoulders back, head held high, hips swaying, a confident smirk on her face. She knew that she'd succeed, and if she didn't, at least she'd go out in style.

And as she left, he watched her with a ghost of a smile on his face, thinking of how proud his predecessors would be. They'd want him to be a strong leader who made decisions that were best for Panem.

And something told him that appointing this feisty young girl as Head Gamemaker would be the best decision that he'd ever make.

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**Well, that's the second prologue. We've met the president of Panem, who shall remain unnamed for a little while. But keep sending those tributes, and check the list (previous chapter) for updates on what I'm looking for.**


	4. Prologue 3: Stained in Red

**Just a quick note: I almost NEVER update this quickly. The only reason why I am is because these prologues are pre-written, and I want to get them to you guys as soon as possible.**

**Also, I have something VERY important to say here. IF YOU ARE NOT COMFORTABLE WITH LANGUAGE, PROCEED WITH CAUTION. There's some cursing in this prologue, and probably in future main chapters, as well. **

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Yasmin fixed her hair and adjusted the straps of her dress, making sure that she had her things tucked away in her jacket. She wasn't exactly in uniform for her first day in her new position, but she wanted to make a good first impression, even if her fellow Gamemakers knew her already.

Once she was satisfied, she walked into the control room. The other Gamemakers were already seated, staring at their computer screens, presumably looking at the plans that Calvin had made.

Yasmin cleared her throat, and everyone's eyes focused on her. She tried not to smile; it was because of a 'tragedy' that she was in this position in the first place. (Of course, for Yasmin, it was more of a celebration than a tragedy, but she had to put on a good show.)

"Greetings," she said. "As you know, I am only in this position due to Calvin's early death. It was quite unfortunate, and I am standing in front of you today with a heavy heart. But we can't afford to grieve with the Games so close, so if you'll all just look at your files, we can begin. Does anyone have any ideas?"

One of the younger Gamemakers, Katerina, spoke. "It's quite simple. We need more traps and mutts."

Yasmin rolled her eyes. "I wasn't quite thinking about that. I mean the design in general. Any ideas to make it suck less?"

Another Gamemaker, Erwin, didn't seem to think before talking. "It doesn't suck at all. I think it's interesting."

Yasmin walked over to his seat, towards the back of the large room. "Huh... when, exactly, did you get the authority to contradict me?"

"I didn't–"

"Exactly. You didn't. I am Head, and you shall not say that I am wrong. In this room, my word is law, and since I say that Calvin's arena is bad, it is bad. You, Erwin, are wrong. I am not, nor will I ever be. Am I clear?"

"That's a dumb rule, Miss Crofter." Someone on the other side of the room spoke up, confident and proud. Yasmin had to hold back a shout, for fear of losing her calm. This guy was clearly new; the others at least knew to hold their tongues.

Yasmin turned around, facing the rest of the Gamemakers, almost all of whom looked afraid.

"Who. Was. That?" Yasmin growled, her hand creeping towards her jacket, and the item she had hidden there.

One boy in the corner of the room raised his hand casually. He was obviously young, no older than eighteen. Yasmin didn't know his name, or recognize his strangely non-Capitol-like appearance. "That'd be me, ma'am."

She allowed herself to smile as she strolled over to the boy's seat, stopping directly in front of him. He was lounging back in his chair, and he had a smirk on his face like he didn't have a care in the world.

It made Yasmin's blood boil.

"What's your name, boy?" Yasmin hissed, her anger evident in her tone of voice. Her hand remained on the object tucked safely away in her jacket, for she didn't want to bring it out just yet.

"Jack," he said casually, as if the Head Gamemaker wasn't standing over him.

"Well, Jack," she said, "Would you like to tell me exactly why you think it's right to be so rude to your superior?"

He rolled his eyes. "I'm your equal, ma'am. It's not like you deserve to be here." His voice dropped to a whisper, and his eyes scanned the room as if he was sharing the biggest, most priceless secret in all of Panem. "I know what you did to get that spot. So don't play like you're perfect and honest. 'Cuz you're not. You're a scumbag and an asshole who doesn't know when to quit."

Yasmin struggled to find words that could express her anger, struggling to maintain a calm demeanor. "What did you just say? Because it sounded like a load of bullshit to me. You, boy, are probably no more than a peasant. A pathetic, low-life peasant." She leaned in closer, casting a shadow on Jack's pathetically thin frame. "I find honesty to be useful in gaining success," she lied. "I got here because I _deserve _it. Calvin's death was a mere coincidence, and I was _not_ expecting a promotion out of it."

"Right. Okay," Jack scoffed nonchalantly. "Because your own _brother_ winning the Games last year was a mere coincidence, too."

"Shut up!" Yasmin yelled, her usual composure replaced with rage at this boy. "Kellyn's victory was due to his skill! I didn't have a thing to do with it! If it were up to me, he wouldn't've been reaped in the first place!"

She pulled the object from her jacket; a small black handgun, loaded with a single bullet. Only one shot wasn't optimal, but it worked for what she needed it for. Yasmin aimed the gun at Jack's smirking face, all the while completely aware of the other Gamemakers staring at her in shock and horror.

"As I said to another one of your fellow Gamemakers, my word is law while we are in this room together. You don't seem to be a big fan of the law. So I will make myself clear, Jack. Speak out again and you get a nice shiny bullet through your thick skull."

"M-miss Crofter, I don't think that's very—"

Yasmin whipped around, towards the direction of the voice. With one swift pull of the trigger, her only bullet flew towards a Gamemaker's head, filling the room with a loud bang. He immediately fell over, lifeless. Blood splattered on the wall behind him, leaving a bright red mark in everyone's memories.

"Reasonable?" Yasmin finished for the man. "Too bad you can't finish your argument." She turned to face the rest of the Gamemakers. Some of them were staring with dropped jaws, some of them were holding back tears, and Jack... Well, he wasn't smirking for once.

She put the gun back inside her jacket and smiled brightly, as if she hadn't just shot a man. "Well?" she chirped, walking briskly back to the front of the room, where she'd entered. "What are you all staring at? We have a bad arena to redesign!"

The Gamemakers were quick to get to work. Yasmin walked around the room, leaning over their shoulders and telling them exactly what they were doing wrong. The new arena began to take shape, and it wasn't half bad. In fact, if you asked Yasmin, it was the best arena since the 75th, even though she probably couldn't top that if she tried.

As she looked over the final draft, editing things to make the arena its own kind of deadly, Yasmin couldn't help but think of how much fun this year's Games would be... for everyone but the tributes.

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**Okay, so this is where you see things starting to happen. I think that I let Yasmin's nature shine a little here. Okay, more than a little. But still, it's fun to write characters like this.**

**Anyway, we have one more prologue left to go. I just have to say this: I WILL NOT START WRITING THE ACTUAL STORY UNTIL I HAVE ALL TWENTY-FOUR TRIBUTES. I've got about half of them, so start sending that other half! (Please... I really want to start the character intros...)**

**Oh, and one last thing: I'm going to attempt to write this in the style of History Repeats Itself by Author of Ice and Fire. There are a few intros, then a few reapings, and then everyone else is introduced over the course of the pre-Games. I'm doing it this way because, as a reader of numerous SYOTs, the reapings can get boring after a while, and I want to make this story fast-paced and exciting for you guys.**


	5. Prologue 4: The Boy Who Remembered

**So, this prologue is unlike the other three, because it's actually _not_ in Yasmin's POV. It's still centered around her, but this time, you see what one of the outsiders think of her. **

**I'm so glad that so many of you picked up on the hint I dropped last chapter, because we're headed to the Districts. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Kellyn Crofter, Victor of the 102nd Hunger Games.**

* * *

To be perfectly honest, Kellyn wasn't a fan of being rich and famous. He'd preferred his quiet, calm life back when he hadn't been reaped for the Games, and when his mother wasn't sick in bed, practically dead already.

He had vague memories of life in the Capitol, including a loud family living in a giant house, happy as could be.

Well, that was how all of the Capitol people lived, wasn't it? Without a care in the world, looking forward to the slaughter of the citizens in the Districts.

Kellyn might've been one of them, one of those disgusting freak shows, if his mother hadn't been ordered by the doctor to move out to the rural plains of District Nine in a desperate attempt to get some fresh air into her failing lungs. Cancer, they'd called it. Supposedly, it had gone away, but it was back now. He could tell just by looking at his mother's demeanor as she laid on her bed, feeble from lack of energy.

He held her hand gently, afraid that holding on too tight would awaken her from her all-too-peaceful slumber, or maybe crush her fragile hand altogether. She looked so calm sleeping there, and it was all that Kellyn could do to wonder if she'd wake up this time.

"You okay?" a familiar feminine voice called from the doorway. Kellyn's girlfriend, Petra, stood there, clearly worried. Her blonde hair was a mess and her clothes were dirty, but he still had to blink every time he saw her and wonder if she was an angel.

"No," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "My mom is dying. Am I supposed to be okay? Because I don't think I am."

She walked over to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Look at it this way. She's gonna get her happily ever after sooner than most people."

_Most people._ _Not everyone gets a happily ever after at all_, he thought. He thought of the tributes who he'd seen die; the twelve-year-old from Five, the deaf girl from Seven, the simple-minded boy from Ten.

It was unfair. So many people, _kids_, had been forced to die. And Kellyn just so happened to be the lucky one who got a lucky hit or two with a knife.

He didn't realize that he was crying. It was so easy to get lost in bad memories, and his battle damage wasn't helping matters.

Without thinking, his gaze drifted to his metal arm, the one holding on lightly to his mother's pale hand, and more memories of agony flooded back to him.

He remembered the District One boy driving a knife into his arm, so deep that he actually felt it scrape against his bone, causing him to scream in pain louder than he'd ever screamed before, and then… Nothing, no pain, no feeling at all. He remembered pulling the knife out and, in an act of desperation, plunging it into the unsuspecting boy's heart.

He remembered the Capitol hovercrafts lifting him out of the arena, and then amputating his permanently-damaged arm (apparently the One boy had damaged some of his nerves) and replacing it with the prosthetic.

He remembered putting on a brave face as he sat on that interview stage when it was all over, trying in vain to cover up the damage that had been done, both to his body and his mind. He remembered coming home to his mother, lying in bed, too weak to smile at him or say 'hello.'

The tears were falling faster, and he started to sob, caught up in the terror of his memories, unable to pull himself back into reality.

Petra kneeled down next to him, taking his real hand in her own and squeezing it tight. "They're all in heaven now, Kel. They're okay, and she will be, too."

She tried for a reassuring smile, and Kellyn's heart skipped a beat, because _god_, she was so beautiful when she smiled.

"How... how did you know that I was thinking about... it..." he muttered, trying his best not to cry anymore (he was failing pretty miserably).

"Because that's the only time I've ever seen you cry. When you think about the time that we do not speak of."

She stood, holding out her hand, her blue eyes slowly filling with tears. "Now come on. There's a mandatory broadcast on television and I don't want to get executed today."

Kellyn glanced one last time at his slumbering mother, and, with a quick kiss on her forehead (that was alarmingly feverish), he let Petra lead him into the living room, where the broadcast was just beginning.

Julian Jacobs, the Capitol's favorite announcer, was sitting in an armchair on a stage that Kellyn recognized as the interview stage for the Games. Petra, probably recognizing the stage as well, squeezed his hand as if to remind him that it was all over.

"Greetings, Panem!" Jacobs chirped, his overly perky voice booming through his microphone. "Today, we have a special interview for you all! Please welcome our new Head Gamemaker, Miss Yasmin Crofter!"

_Crofter_. Kellyn froze. That was _his_ name. The Head Gamemaker shared his name.

He watched, wide-eyed, as a woman of about twenty sauntered onstage without a care in the world. There was almost no family resemblance, due to the girl's alarmingly pink hair, very much unlike Kellyn's brown hair. But when the camera zoomed in for a close-up of the girl's face, Kellyn saw eyes that were an all-too-familiar shade of green.

Those were his mother's eyes. _His_ eyes.

"Kellyn," Petra gasped, alarmed, "Why does she look so much like you?"

He was at a loss for words. His eyes were fixed on the screen, watching the pink-haired girl who somehow shared his eyes.

"So, Yasmin," Julian said as the girl sat down, "You were promoted to Head Gamemaker under rather unusual circumstances. How do you feel about your promotion?"

She smiled brightly, and Kellyn couldn't help but think that the look was strange for someone who'd probably murdered some of his fellow tributes. "Of course, Calvin's death was a real tragedy. I was there, you know, and watching someone so close to you die before your very eyes... Well, there's really nothing more traumatizing."

"Bullshit," Kellyn muttered under his breath. He'd learned how to see through lies in the arena, and what Yasmin had just said certainly qualified as one. "As if she knows what that feels like."

She continued, still smiling. "But, of course, duty calls, and I'm going to deliver. The 103rd Games are going to be spectacular. I'm going to make sure of that."

The audience watching burst into cheers, as if they didn't realize that Yasmin was probably talking about the fact that she was going to brutally murder twenty-three kids.

Petra frowned. "Spectacular for them is very different than spectacular for us."

Kellyn could only nod, fearful that if he tried to speak, he'd start screaming in rage.

Julian only smiled, not the least bit alarmed by Yasmin's overly cheerful attitude. "Is the sudden position change difficult?"

"Oh, not at all. It feels rather natural, in fact. Like I'm supposed to be creating the arena." She laughed. "Funny how fate works, isn't it?"

Julian's smile wavers slightly. It's quick, only lasting about half a second, but Kellyn catches that moment of discomfort all the same. "Well, then... Oh, yes, there's something that I've been wondering for a while, now. Are you aware that you share a last name with our most recent Victor?"

Petra looked at Kellyn, alarmed. "Oh my god."

Kellyn didn't realize that he was clenching his metal fist, mad at this girl who he'd never met. Yet some part of her seemed oddly familiar, and he sensed that he knew her from somewhere.

The fact that she supposedly looked like him wasn't helping.

Yasmin smiled. "Ah, I've heard that one before. Yes, Kellyn Crofter of Nine is my brother. He moved to the Districts a long time ago with our mother. But that was back when I was five and he was like one. Haven't seen him in, oh, maybe sixteen or so years?"

He was in shock, staring at the screen in surprise, unable to comprehend what he'd just heard. _I have a sister,_ he thought. _A sister who's a murderer in her own right._

Suddenly angry, Kellyn grabbed the remote and turned off the television in anger. He couldn't stand the thought that Yasmin, his _sister_, had a hand in the murders of children, possibly for multiple years. He'd never met her, but he instantly hated her.

Petra, panicking, immediately turned the television back on. "We have to sit through it. No matter how horrible this girl is. I don't want to get executed."

He reluctantly turned his attention back to the screen, where Yasmin was answering another question.

"I'm afraid I can't tell you that, Julian. If I were to say what I had in store for the arena, well, that removes the element of surprise, doesn't it?"

Julian laughed. "Of course, of course. Now, for the tributes... Expecting any surprises this year?"

Yasmin's smug smirk grew even bigger, a sight that, for some reason, made Kellyn sick to his stomach. "Oh, there's a surprise every year. I think that it'll be fun to kill—er, watch, the tributes this time around."

Kellyn wanted to run onto that stage and punch this girl in the face. The things that she had the nerve to say... Did she not realize that young lives were going to end at her hand?

_No_, he thought, _she does realize it. And she's perfectly fine with that._

He remembered the boom of the cannons, and how he would flinch at the sound of each one, because someone had just died and he couldn't stand the thought of that. He remembered staring at his knife after his first kill, looking at the crimson blood on the blade and feeling like a monster.

That was what she was doing. Turning kids into monsters.

Hr squeezed Petra's hand, just for reassurance that she was there and he was out of the arena and _he didn't have to kill anyone anymore._

"It's horrible," he muttered. "I get to send two kids into her hands."

And that was what scared him the most; the fact that Yasmin—his _sister_—was going to kill off twenty-three children and he would be nearly powerless to stop it.

Cruel. Disgusting. Horrifying. Those were the words that Kellyn thought of when the Hunger Games were mentioned, and the thought of this woman pulling the strings only enhanced those beliefs.

It was then and there that Kellyn decided that he would _not_ let his tributes die. He would help them survive, and do anything in his power to make one of them walk out of that arena.

But then there were the tributes from the other Districts, ones that wouldn't have his help. They wouldn't be okay… Unless...

Kellyn turned his attention away from the interview and walked over to the telephone. He had some calls to make if he wanted these tributes to live.

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**I'm very proud of this chapter. I don't know why, I just think that it's good. Anyway, I hope that you like the new characters, and that you (hopefully) can't wait for the first tribute intro! However, before I write that, I need four more tributes. FOUR. Come on, people, send 'em in!**


	6. Zenia: Four More Years

**Here's the first tribute chapter. I have to say that it's such a relief to actually start writing these. This is the first of many, ladies and gentlemen.**

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**Zenia Cerys: District 3 Female**

Zenia hacked and slashed at the dummy with her knife, satisfied when the blade finally tore through the tough exterior. Stuffing spilled out of a gash in the dummy's torso, leaving Zenia to lower her knife in pride.

_I did that_, she thought. While most people wouldn't be proud of destroying something, Zenia's experiences proved that it would be worthwhile in the end.

She left the knife fighting station and decided to move on to something else in the small room. District Three's training center was tiny, nearly abandoned, and pretty much illegal, but Zenia didn't really care, considering that she practically lived there.

Well, she did live there, technically. But since when did technicalities matter?

The three other kids who trained were at the knife throwing station, where they'd decided to hang out for the day. They were wasting their time. Zenia knew that if she was going to win the Games one day, she couldn't afford to waste time with what she wouldn't need.

A foolish ambition, but it was all that Zenia wanted. The other trainees of Three were only training in case they were reaped; Zenia was going to volunteer. Four short years, and she'd be standing on that interview stage with Julian Jacobs, after outlasting twenty-three other children.

Zenia pulled her long, nearly-black hair into a messy ponytail—it only got in the way when it was down—and joined the other kids at knife throwing. They were all her age, yet she barely knew them aside from their names. There was no reason to know them, after all. It wasn't like she was at the training center to make friends.

She took a knife and threw it at the target, only to have it miss entirely, flying almost a foot away from it. Zenia sighed in defeat. Aiming was not something she was good at.

One of the boys smirked at her after he hit one of the red rings on the target. Fuming, Zenia picked up another knife and tried again.

Face sideways. Shoulders back. Arm bent. Zenia prepared herself to throw, taking her time. When she deemed herself ready, she let the weapon fly.

This time, it just barely missed the target, but it still missed. The boy openly laughed. "Nice aim, Zee."

Zenia turned to face the boy—what was his name again? Arthur? "Don't call me Zee," she said, keeping a calm expression and a steady tone, like she'd practiced so many times. "It's Zenia. Z-e-n-i-a. Or can you not spell?"

"I can spell, just don't wanna bother."

She glared at the boy. "I could tear you to shreds if I wanted to, you know."

He rolled his eyes. "You think that makes you sound tough? I ain't scared. Puh-lease. Bet I can beat you at anything."

_That escalated quickly_, she thought. "Oh, yeah? Let's go. Right now."

She noticed his moment of panic, the way his eyes widened and his mouth fell open for a split second before he regained his cocky expression. "Yeah. Okay."

Zenia smiled and picked up a knife, as Arthur scrambled around the center before picking up a heavy-looking sword. The other two trainees were watching them now with growing curiosity, though they were probably rooting for their friend, and Zenia knew that there was no way in hell that she was their friend.

Arthur attacked first, aiming his heavy sword at Zenia's chest. She ducked and aimed a weak kick to his legs. She was never physically strong, but the blow was aimed well enough to knock him to the ground.

Already bored with the whole ordeal, Zenia threw her knife on the ground and walked away, completely oblivious to the strange looks she was getting. She was probably the only person in all of Three who wanted to compete in the Games, and it showed.

Her first Reaping was in two days. She, unlike everyone else in the world who wasn't a Career, was looking forward to the event. It would mark four years before it would be her turn, and she honestly couldn't wait.

Whether that was good or bad, Zenia didn't know, and frankly, she didn't really care.

She'd lost track of where she was going a long time ago, but she eventually found herself on the roof of the training center, taking her blanket and wrapping it around herself. The sun was just setting over the District, and Zenia sat on the edge of the roof like she'd done so many times before, admiring the red sky.

She could see everything. Her grandmother's humble house, where she and her cousin, Ebony, were probably enjoying a meal. One of the factories, where the geniuses manufactured all of Three's trademark technology. The marketplace, where the citizens of Three who weren't filthy rich made their living.

And far off into the distance was the Victor's Village, so calm and peaceful compared to the rest of Three. Zenia wanted more than anything to be there, off into the distance where she was nearly untouchable.

Not yet, she reminded herself. She had a long way to go before she could be where she wanted to be, but she knew that she could get there. In four short years, everyone would know who Zenia Cerys was. Panem would be proud to know her name.

That was all that she wanted, really. To be known across the nation as the greatest Victor that District Three had ever produced. It was a crazy ambition, sure, but Zenia knew that it would happen. She was strong. Not as much as a Career, maybe, but strong nonetheless.

And as she stared at the setting sun as it cast light over her District—her home—she wondered how it would feel to see the world from a different view. The one she had was nice, but she'd always wanted something bigger, something grander. Something that was truly a sight to see, even more so than the spectacle of colors before her eyes.

Cheering fans, riches beyond compare, a place among the best of the best Victors in Hunger Games history. It seemed as if that was the only thing that would satisfy Zenia, and her longing for something special.

_Four more years_, Zenia, she thought. _Four more years_.

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**Yeah, it's a little obvious that Zenia's quite the dreamer. Or, at least, I see her that way. I don't know if this was what her creator intended, but I think that it turned out pretty nicely. I enjoy writing for Zenia, she's a great character who has lots of room for development.**

**I hope that the other tribute chapters go as smoothly as this one, but I can't be sure. I have standardized testing coming up, so I'm not sure if I'll be able to get a chapter out that quickly, but I'll do my best.**


	7. Aedan: Everything and Nothing

**I found Aedan harder to write than expected (I don't know how to write a character like this very well), which is why this chapter took a little while. Might want to get used to it, because I'm extremely busy with life, . Standardized testing didn't help, either, but at least I'm done with that and can focus on my writing a little more.**

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**Aedan Prince Hematite, District One Male**

* * *

Aedan was proud to call himself fortunate. He was wealthy, charming, and strikingly good-looking—at least, in his opinion. There was nothing that Aedan didn't have.

Well, except for one thing.

You see, girls always flocked towards Aedan and his body. He never hesitated to sleep around with the ladies of District One, especially when most of the girls there were some of the most attractive girls in Panem. It was an... interesting way of life, that was for sure, but there was always something more that Aedan craved.

Glory. He didn't know why he wanted it, or what about it was so enticing to him, but it was something that had been just within reach since he was young. Ever since he'd started training, the title of Victor had been so close, and so far at the same time.

For some reason, he was thinking about this as he stood on line for the close-combat section in the Training Academy, watching two girls mercilessly attack each other. The line was long, as usual, and his fellow trainees were all getting antsy due to the fact that the fight was taking forever.

Aedan was far from bored, though, analyzing every move made by the blondes. They could be his future opponents, after all.

It helped that he knew the two girls. One of them was his lifelong friend, and the other was anything but.

His attention started to wander, as he looked around the Academy at the other teenagers who wanted the same exact thing that he did. I'm better than you, he thought as he watched a boy twirl a knife. And you. And you.

One of the girls had the other in a headlock, as the smaller of the two tapped the mat once, twice, three times. She'd lost.

Aedan stepped out of line to greet the loser, a girl by the name of Kira. He knew her all too well, because she was his closest friend (not without benefits, of course).

"Nice going. You got your ass handed to you," he said with a smirk.

She slapped his arm, and he flinched in pain, because Kira had broken his bones before; she was strong. "Don't you dare. You know who I was up against." She smiled playfully, eyes flickering over to the girl in question. "Get her alone yet?"

"Shut up. I don't owe you anything 'till she volunteers."

"Does it look like I care? A bet is a bet. She won't give you the time of day and you know it."

Aedan ran a hand through his platinum-blonde hair, as he always did when he was annoyed. "Yeah? I'mma go talk to her right now. We'll see if she answers."

Kira rolled her eyes as Aedan put on his most confident smile and walked in the direction of the girl. She was tall and slender, with the same golden blonde hair as every District One girl he'd ever met, coupled with icy blue eyes that seemed to radiate intensity. He liked that she was fearless, that she was tough.

Besides, he could say that he'd done the deed with a future Career when he was finished with her. What was better than that?

He didn't dare approach her right away. That was the trick; impress the girl, then have them come to him. It worked every time. (After all, what kind of man would he be to throw himself at a woman? That was their job.)

He made sure to cross her path as he walked over to the sword fighting station, cutting the line of trainees and picking up a heavy-looking two-handed sword. It felt somewhat awkward in his hands—he was much better with a one-handed sword—but he'd make do.

The boy in front of him was somewhat bulky, and was at least a year older than Aedan. He smirked, despite knowing full well that he stood no chance, especially with an unfamiliar weapon.

The boy swung his weapon, a one-handed sword very similar to the one Aedan usually used, downward, narrowly missing Aedan's head. Aedan struggled to lift his heavy weapon as he swung it clumsily, stumbling a bit when the boy dodged. He ducked in time to avoid the blade slicing his head open.

He lifted his weapon and charged, hitting the boy with the flat of his heavy blade. To Aedan's dismay, he only stumbled a little, thanks to the fact that he was about twice Aedan's size.

Aedan managed a glance in his female target's direction. She, unlike quite a few of the other people in the Academy, wasn't paying him any attention.

The boy feinted left, and Aedan fell for the trap, dodging the sword. The boy shoved Aedan to the ground and pointed the tip of his sword at his neck. He had lost.

The small crowd began to disperse, and as Aedan scanned the people who left the area, he didn't see the girl among them. Just Kira, clapping sarcastically and laughing with a smug smile on her face.

"Well done. You just got your ass handed to you on a silver platter. And the girl didn't even notice you. Pay up."

He rolled his eyes. "Joke's on you. I'm broke."

"You do realize that just means you owe me money now, right?"

He stood up and dusted himself off. "Aw, shut up."

Luckily for him, another girl had noticed him during his fight. "Hey, there," she said, leaning a bit too far forward (not that he minded). "Saw the fight back there. You were good."

Kira, knowing when she wasn't needed, backed away casually. Aedan just smiled. "Yeah. Not even my kind of weapon. But, ya know, gotta try everything at some point."

She smiled suggestively. "You know, I'm pretty good with a two-handed sword. Maybe I could teach you sometime... and who knows what could happen after that?"

Before Aedan could agree, an all-too-familiar voice called out. "Aurora!" They both looked to see the girl who Aedan had been pursuing in the first place, standing a few yards away. "We gotta go!"

"Coming, Chardonnay!" she responded. "We'll discuss this another day," she whispered into Aedan's ear, followed by a wink and a wave. He smiled back at her before turning around and finding Kira again.

"She ruined my shot with another girl, too. Damn bitch."

Kira rolled her eyes. "You never know. Maybe she's—heaven forbid—out of your league."

"Impossible."

"Still owe me money."

Aedan didn't really care about the bet anymore. He took another look at Chardonnay, flanked by two girls—one of them being the one he'd had wrapped around his finger—as she left the Academy for the day. He just wanted to be noticed by her, just like he'd been with every other girl who he'd met. Sure, it was just one girl, but even being ignored by one girl killed him.

He would have her. Even if it was the last thing he accomplished, he wouldn't let her slip away.

* * *

**I don't know if I did this well. Characters like Aedan are extremely hard for me to write, and I don't really know why. It's my first time writing a character who's, well, like that. Deathless, if you could tell me how I did, it'd mean the world to me.**

**Again, don't expect a new chapter to come soon. I have a lot going on next week, so I can't write too much. I'll do my best, but the chapter probably won't come 'till next weekend at the earliest.**


	8. Kattel: The World We Live In

**I know. I haven't updated in a while. But the reason is personal and I'd prefer not to talk about it. Please just enjoy the chapter. **

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**Kattel Holstein: District Ten Male**

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Peace and quiet. That was all he wanted. He did not appreciate the constant noises that came from the local market; the jingle of cowbells, the clip-clop of hooves, the yelling at the traders saying that their product was 'perfect for sale'.

To say that Kattel wasn't a fan of District Ten was the understatement of the century.

He even looked like he didn't belong, with his white-blonde hair and big round glasses. He was somewhat of an anomaly, his scrawny build quite different from the usual muscles of the other men.

Another thing that was strange about Kattel: He liked to read.

Yes, as odd as it was for a citizen of Ten, Kattel was practically a certified bookworm. He used to spend hours in his grandmother's library, drinking in all of the information held within the pages he read.

And he still did that, of course. There was only one small problem with that; the library had started to crumble to dust years ago. It was barely still together.

Nevertheless, Kattel loved the place. It was an escape from his parents' constant fighting, his all-too-ordinary life.

It was where he'd decided to head on that fateful day before the Reaping, despite its deteriorating state. He crawled under the yellow construction tape and worked his way around fallen beams and through holes in the walls.

He finally found what he was looking for; a small paperback journal, the brown leather cover slightly torn and battered thanks to time. It was Kattel's favorite thing to read, despite it seeming out of character for a supposedly-sweet boy like him.

A log of past Hunger Games, written by an anonymous author. The vivid details made Kattel want to come back to the journal every time he visited the library, despite their descriptions of horrid blood and gore. It was an odd fascination, one that Kattel wasn't proud of.

And yet he opened the journal anyway, squinting to read the tiny, cramped handwriting. Every page was something different, something new, something even more terrifying than the last.

It seemed like something that shouldn't intrigue him, yet it did.

"What'cha reading, Kat?" someone said behind him, her voice high and clear. He turned around to find Anatolia, black hair falling down in waves and a small smile on her face.

He knew she wasn't really there. He'd always known. But his difficulty to make friends with real, actual people had forced him to come up with this figment of his imagination, though he preferred to think of her with terms that were a lot nicer than that.

"Nothin'," he muttered, turning back around and attempting to lose himself in the journal once more.

"Not possible. You have to be reading something, or those aren't words on that page."

Kattel sighed and delicately closed the journal, handing it to Anatolia in defeat.

Of course, because Anatolia wasn't exactly real, the journal hit the floor in a cloud of dust as he let go.

Kattel carefully picked up the journal, the leather cover practically falling apart in his hands. Even so, he found his place and continued reading.

The girl from Three who shoved the man into the forcefield and won the 91st. The boy from Four who, even with no weapons in the Cornucopia (or anywhere in the arena), used brute strength alone to claim victory in the Fourth Quarter Quell. The girl from Seven who had all-too-deadly aim with her axe, earning a title of the Victor of the 98th.

It was far too disturbing for him to continue. He closed the journal, setting it on a crumbling wooden bookshelf where he knew he'd be able to find it again.

He wondered if there was somewhere where such terror didn't exist. Where people didn't have to kill each other for sport. Where freedom was perfectly normal.

Kattel almost laughed at the thought. Freedom... the word was so unheard of in Panem that he'd missed the sound of it. He replayed the thought in his head, picturing himself not having to live in fear.

After all, that's what freedom meant, right? Nobody living in fear.

He worked his way outside of the library, where the sun was just starting to set. Children, some his age, were heading to their houses after a long day, to prepare for an even longer one.

With a jolt, Kattel recalled that tomorrow was Reaping Day, and he'd have to wake up the next morning wondering if he'd end up in a journal like the one he adored and feared so.

Of course he wouldn't. That journal was for Victors.

He sighed and started heading for home, the thought of a different place—a better place—lingering in his mind. Was it possible, a nation just like Panem where kids weren't sent to die every year?

Surprisingly, it was hard for Kattel to imagine. He'd gotten... used to the Reapings, to the annual deaths on his television screen. It was a part of his life, a part of everyone's life.

And yet, the thoughts didn't go away. What if a place like that did exist, far away in a far-off place where everyone was carefree?

_Not possible_, he thought.

He continued to walk home, the sun setting over the open plains of District Ten and casting a golden glow on the small town in the distance. His shadow seemed to trail behind his small frame, turning around as the sun sank lower.

Kattel sighed again. If a world like that really _did_ exist, it sure as hell wasn't the world he lived in.

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**Well, that's the last tribute intro. The next chapter will actually be a Reaping, which I am actually really excited to write. Until then, though, you'll have to settle for this chapter that seemed really short to me for some reason. I don't know. **


	9. Dominick: Crossing My Fingers

**Finals. They suck. The surprise vacation to NYC has been nice, though the lack of a computer means more writing on my phone and more achy thumbs.**

**Ow.**

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**Dominick Reece, District Seven Male**

* * *

Reaping Day. The bane of everyone's existence. It was the day that every District citizen in their right mind dreaded, whether they were on the chopping block or were forced to wonder if their kids would make it.

It was no secret that Dominick wasn't the biggest fan of the event, and neither was anyone else in District Seven. The panicking, the tears, that one time a kid fainted.

No, that year wasn't pretty.

At least Dominick was almost done, and oh, how good it would feel to be free! Sure, he would be on his own with no money—less than usual, which was saying quite a lot—but it was better than dying in an arena or having to stain his hands with blood. Anything was better than that, really.

He thought of this as he waited in line to get his blood taken, standing behind many other boys who were probably just as nervous as he was, if not more. His name wasn't in there too much; surely he'd be fine.

"Next," called a Peacekeeper, sounding so bored that Dominick had to stifle a laugh. He held out his finger like he'd done five times before, crossing his other fingers with his free hand as he felt the needle enter his finger. He wouldn't un-cross them until he knew he was safe.

He went to stand in the eighteen-year-old-male section, nodding at his acquaintances. He saw Caleb moving to stand beside him, probably to chat a little before the "war, terrible war" started and he died of boredom.

"Hey."

"Hi," Dominick responded. "That all ya got to say to me, or are ya just gonna be obnoxious for the next half hour."

After a moment of silence, Caleb spoke again. "Hey."

Dominick rolled his eyes and laughed. "Hi."

They went back and forth like that for a while, and the conversation slowly evolved into saying random words and seeing what made the pair laugh the most. Dominick loved moments like this, the simple moments that took attention away from everything that was bad.

A familiar girl waved at him from the seventeen-year-old section. He smiled a little and waved back.

Those moments were pretty good, too.

Eleanor shot him a thumbs-up from across the area, mouthing the words 'see you later.' Dominick nodded, crossing his fingers just a little bit tighter.

Their Escort said something that Dominick had probably heard a thousand times—he didn't know, he didn't pay attention—and played the video.

"War. Terrible war." Dominick turned to Caleb and began dramatically mouthing the words being spoken, complete with overly-exaggerated hand motions. Caleb covered his mouth with his hand, trying desperately to laugh as silently as possible.

The video ended. The escort, a woman whose skin was a disturbing shade of pink—it matched her hair—clip-clopped up to the microphone in her extremely high heels. "Ladies first!" she chirped as she walked over to the girls' reaping bowl, made a big show of choosing a slip, and marched back to the microphone.

"Ivy Frasier!"

A twelve-year-old. She stepped out of her section with silent tears streaming down her face. Dominick heard screaming, then realized it was probably coming from her family.

As the girl walked forward, a desperate, all-too-familiar voice called, "Wait! Please, wait!"

Eleanor stepped out into the aisle, frantically pulling the girl behind her. "I... I volunteer!"

Dominick thought he might faint.

The escort just looked confused. "Uh... isn't there a, er, process to that? Doesn't she have to... um..."

Eleanor ignored her, taking her place onstage. "You have a tribute, don't you? Does it matter?"

Yeah, Dominick thought. If it was Eleanor on that stage, it mattered to him more than he could comprehend.

The escort looked appalled. "What's your name?"

"E-Eleanor Ray," she stuttered, playing with a lock of brown hair.

"Alright, then! On to the boys!" The escort beamed as she walked over to the boys' bowl and pulled out a slip.

Dominick didn't hear the name, and honestly, he didn't care. It was a split-second decision that caused him to say what he said next.

"I volunteer as tribute!"

Caleb grabbed his arm. "Dude. What are you doing."

Dominick wrenched his hand from Caleb's grip. "I'm not letting her go alone."

With that, he walked down that aisle and towards the stage. The escort looked shocked yet again, as if she couldn't comprehend the fact that maybe, just maybe, someone cared about someone out in little old District Seven.

As he reached the stage, he met the escort's eyes. "My name is Dominick Reece."

Two pairs of brown eyes met, and Dominick tried to smile, tried to reassure her that it'd be okay.

The escort lifted their hands into the air. "Ladies and gentlemen! Your tributes for the 103rd Hunger Games! Eleanor Ray and Dominick Reece!"

The tributes were escorted offstage, and Eleanor gave Dominick a shove. "Idiot."

Dominick ran a hand through his black hair, the harsh reality of the situation sinking in. "What was I supposed to do?"

"Stay in your section. God, Nick, you could've made it. You could've left me to die. Or do you not have faith that I'll win?"

"Why do you think I'm here?!" he shouted, not caring about the strange looks they'd started to get from Peacekeepers. He took a deep breath and calmed down. "You're not dying without me."

She gave a small smile. "Back at ya."

They were ushered into different rooms for goodbyes, and Dominick leaned against the wall. He looked at his hand, realizing he'd never uncrossed his fingers.

He decided to keep them crossed. He'd need some luck if Eleanor was to make it out alive.

* * *

**I wrote that in one sitting. I'm proud of myself, and I seriously hope it's not terrible because I don't even know anymore.**

**My thumbs hurt.**


	10. Hestia: Chin Up

**I feel like I need to come up with a way to get over writer's block. It took me like ten tries to finally get this chapter right. **

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**Hestia Hepburn, District Six Female**

* * *

Perhaps the woods shouldn't have been so familiar to her. But they were, and Hestia loved them anyway; the smell of the pine, the gentle breeze, the sunlight that shone through the cracks. Woods were hard to find in Six—maybe that was why Hestia found sanctuary there.

The place should have brought bad memories, but Hestia had always forced herself to look past her... incident. Even so, she found herself looking down at the stump where her hand should have been, though she immediately looked away.

Looking at what used to be her hand brought back memories of Atlas. She didn't want to think about him.

The Reaping bells sounded, and Hestia, careful not to ruin her brand-new blue dress, hurried towards the square, hoping that her parents hadn't noticed her disappearance. Surely, her father, under alcohol's influence, would be furious with her.

It took her no longer than ten minutes to arrive in the square, panting and out of breath. She straightened her back, plastered a grin on her face, and stood in line like a girl of her status should.

"Hestia Hepburn," she chirped upon reaching the front of the line, hastily flipping her blonde hair over her shoulder to get it out of her eyes. She looked like a wreck, but she couldn't show the world that it bothered her. She smiled as the Peacekeeper grabbed her finger and took her blood, and as she skipped over to the thirteen-year-old section.

Atlantis was the escort for District Six that year, an abnormally slim man with cerulean hair and a similarly-colored mustache. "Hello, District Six!" he bellowed, a gigantic (and clearly fake) grin plastered across his heavily altered face. "We have a special video presentation for you, and then we'll get to the Reaping, hm?"

They changed the visuals of the video every year. Sure, the 'war, terrible war' part was always the same, but Hestia always found herself carefully watching the screen to see which Tributes from previous years would haunt her nightmares. And recently, she always looked to make sure that her dead brother wasn't up there.

But there he was. Atlas Hepburn, Tribute in the 102nd Annual Hunger Games. Hestia found her eyes glued to the screen as he drove a sword through a girl's stomach. The look in his eyes was so similar to the look that day, when she happened upon him in the woods.

She had come to tell him to hurry home for dinner. In return, he had thrown his knife, and it had sliced through Hestia's hand. She remembered thinking that it surely had to be an accident, for her brother would never do such a thing to her.

Then she saw the look in his eyes, a look filled with malice and venom.

"Well, then!" Atlantis bellowed as the video ended, snapping Hestia back into reality. "Shall we begin? Let's shake it up and start with the boys."

He sauntered over to the boys' Reaping Bowl, carefully choosing a slip from the very bottom. "Farren Windio!"

A boy emerged from the fifteen-year-old section, with black hair and blue eyes. Hestia was surprised to find that the look on his face resembled acceptance.

Did he know? Did he expect it?

Farren walked onstage with surprising confidence, hands clenched in fists and eyes steely with determination. Hestia felt a sudden surge of admiration for the boy; how brave he was! He took his place onstage without a moment of hesitation. No sadness, no fear.

In an odd way, he reminded her of Atlas. Perhaps it was his fearlessness. Only with Atlas had Hestia seen such blatant courage.

"And now, for the ladies!" Atlantis said as he pulled a name from the girls' Bowl. Hestia knew there was nothing to worry about; her name was in the bowl just twice. She would be okay, she would be okay, she would be—

"Hestia Hepburn!"

No.

This isn't happening, she thought. It's a dream. I know it's a dream. I'm going to be okay.

"Hestia? Is there a Hestia Hepburn here?"

She felt herself take one, two, three steps until she was in the aisle leading to the stage. Exposed. Vulnerable. Hestia knew how unlike her brother she was. She was not brave, or strong.

As she walked towards the stage, the square seemed to grow darker, and darker, until everything finally went black.

_"Hestia, go home," her brother had said, glaring at her as he threw his blade at a tree in the woods, the blade sticking to the already-scratched wood. "I'm in the middle of something._

_"B-but, Atlas," she'd replied, "Papa needs you to come home. It's almost dinnertime."_

_"Does it look like I give a shit?" Eleven years old at the time, Hestia had been taken aback by her big brother's words. "This is important. Dinner can wait."_

_"Papa needs you home now," she'd insisted, stepping in front of Atlas. The look in his eyes had worried her; it wasn't too far off from madness._

_She didn't like madness._

_He threw his knife. It had chopped her hand clean off, gushing crimson blood. Some part of her registered a scream, though she didn't know if it was hers or her brother's. He'd apologized a thousand times over, rushing her back home to their family._

_The entire time, he didn't shed one single tear. His seemingly worried expression was halfhearted and fake._

"Hestia. Wake up."

Hestia bolted upright, sitting up on the plush couches in the goodbye room. Blue eyes wide, breathing heavy. "W-what?"

"You were reaped, dearie," Atlantis said, staring at her worriedly. Farren stood behind him, frowning. "You passed out."

She wiped away a tear she didn't know she'd shed. "It's okay. I'm okay."

Chin up. That's what her mother always said. So that was what she did. She kept her head held high and her smile wide.

Not even the Reapings could bring her down.

* * *

**I gotta say, I really love writing for this character. I don't know why, but something about her just sticks with me, and it's not the missing hand. It was a lot of fun writing out Hestia's multiple chapter attempts, and I hope you like the way this turned out as much as I do.**


	11. Andromeda: Insanity

**I know. I haven't updated in a while. But life is life, and it's been a pain, even if it's summer. Enjoy the chapter!**

**P.S: Spot the reference! What fandom is the reference from, and what character is the reference linking to?**

* * *

**Andromeda Willison, District Nine Female**

* * *

_Drip. Drip. Drop._ The pouring rain pounded against Andromeda's bedroom window, blurring her view of the world outside her house. District Nine rained often, so she had grown somewhat used to the fact that when it was raining, she could stand in the rain and just soak herself.

_Drip. Drip. Drop._

She couldn't hold back the laughter; a somewhat disturbing sound that was familiar to those who knew her. Andromeda often laughed at nothing at all, for reasons unknown to all but a few.

"Andromeda," her mother snapped, "Downstairs. It's time for the Reapings."

She kept laughing, harder and harder until her cackling drowned out the noise of the rain and filled the nearly empty bedroom. To those in the house who heard it, it was normal. Ever since she'd snapped.

"_Andromeda. Now,_" her mother demanded, the loud voice sending chills through her eldest daughter's brain. She hated when her mother used that tone; it usually meant she was holding a belt.

She'd already been forced into her Reaping outfit earlier; a dark blue blouse, black jeans, formerly white flats that were nearly brown from the layer of dirt covering them. Ankle-length black hair, grown that long from never being allowed to cut it, pulled back into a messy bun. Bloodshot hazel eyes covered with silver contacts and —some called them ridiculous, Andromeda called them awesome—and framed with round glasses.

The pants hid the scars on her legs fairly well, but those on her arms peeked out from beneath her sleeves. They were sure to raise questions, but then again, was she supposed to care?

_Drip. Drip. Drop._ The rain was still falling, showing no sign of stopping. Outside her window, she saw the citizens of District Nine holding things over their heads, trying not to get their clothing wet.

She skipped downstairs, giggling and muttering to herself. "Birds, flying high, you know how I feel..." The words were from a poem she'd heard one day. They were set to a tune that she didn't quite remember, but the words were pretty and she liked them.

Her sisters were hiding behind the kitchen counter, her parents probably waiting for her. Andromeda, still laughing, raised a hand in greeting, dropping it when she met her father's eyes.

_It's easier for me if you don't struggle, Andy. Just hold still and keep those pretty eyes open._

She fell silent, staring down at her bitten fingernails. Some part of her registered that her mother was demanding that they leave, but she was too lost in her own thoughts.

"Sun in the sky, you know how I feel," she muttered under her breath with a giggle, not caring which members of her family heard her. Then again, she'd never cared.

She ran ahead of her family and out into the murky air of District Nine. "Drip. Drip. Drop," she chanted in tune with the rain, spinning around and letting the cool droplets soak her.

Andromeda skipped through the throngs of people, giggling and chanting and attracting a lot of attention. People stared at the curious girl, wondering what, exactly, was wrong.

It didn't take long to arrive at the square, already filled with people. She'd lost track of her family a while ago, so she just skipped to the sign in line alone, unaware of the Peacekeeper who'd moved a hand towards his gun warily. "Breeze, drifting on by, you know how I feel."

She wasn't the only person in the line who was soaking wet, but she was the only one spinning as she waited for her turn. Finally, she reached the front of the line. "Andromeda Willison," she giggled, the protocol for the Reaping having been drilled into her head rather harshly the night before. The Peacekeeper grabbed her hand and pricked her finger, though Andromeda was unaffected by the slight sting of pain that came afterwards.

A single drop of blood fell from her finger, the brilliant red sparking her curiosity. "Drip. Drip. Drop," she muttered as the droplet fell onto the paper where her name was marked, mesmerized by the way the crimson liquid stained it.

Still staring down at her finger and chanting, she made her way to the fifteen-year-old section, pushing past people who were staring at her. The Reapings commenced after a while, an old-looking woman in a gold wig took the stage. She had tattoos up and down her arms, the same color as her clearly-fake hair.

Andromeda thought she looked pretty.

"Citizens! Welcome to the Reaping for the 103rd Annual Hunger Games! My name is Somina, and I'll be your escort this year! Shall we start with the video?"

The video had always been interesting to Andromeda, from the booming announcer to the gory images to the shade of red splashed across the screen that she loved so much. She clapped once or twice when it ended, but stopped when she realized nobody else was doing so.

"Your male Tribute this year is..." she walked over to the boys' bowl and carefully chose a slip, "Nicolas Wolwinds!"

The fourteen-year-old section parts to reveal a tall brunette, one with a look of shock plastered across his face. He doesn't move, processing everything really slowly, and just as the frightened expression appears, a Peacekeeper grabs him and drags him onstage.

The boy stares out into the audience, seeming afraid. The Victors look sympathetic, and the Escort looks like she couldn't care less.

"And now for the girls," Somina continued as she chose from the girls' bowl. "Andromeda Willison!"

Andromeda didn't realize that her name had been called until the people in her section backed away from her. A smile broke out on her face as she walked up to the stage, Nicolas staring at her in fear.

She reached the stage at last, staring out at all of the people. So many confused, terrified faces. It was a new sight for Andromeda, that was for sure.

She laughed. At first, it was just a giggle, but it slowly grew louder, happier, until she was doubling over, cackling.

"Erm, well," Somina called over Andromeda's laughing, "there are your Tributes! Nicolas Wolwinds and Andromeda Willison! Happy Hunger Games, District Nine!"

Andromeda didn't realize that the sedatives were being shot into her arm until the world began to fade away. The square grew darker, until she could see nothing. She fell into the Peacekeeper's arms, the eerie smile not leaving her face.

* * *

**DISCLAIMER: The "poem" that Andromeda recites in this chapter is actually lyrics from "Feeling Good" by Michael Buble. I claim no rights to this song. **

**In case you haven't noticed, Andromeda is certifiably insane. The reasons will be revealed in later chapters, but there are hints, and pretty obvious ones at that. It's surprisingly fun to write for her, and it was fun coming up with a chapter to center around her. **

**Sorry again for the lack of updates, and I hope you liked the chapter!**


	12. Zairre: Dysfunctional

**Only one person got the Fairy Tail reference. *cri* (I just thought those words worked well with the character, and they helped build a creepy atmosphere for Andromeda that I was having lots of trouble with. If I see something from another fandom that fits a character, I ****_will_**** throw it in. Expect more Spot the Reference in the future.)**

**I promise, I'll try to be a little more consistent with updates. On with the first of the goodbyes. Please note that, because the goodbyes take place within the span of a few minutes, I won't be able to extend these chapters to the length of the others, so they'll be shorter. I'm sorry about that.**

* * *

**Zairre Cou, District Three Male**

* * *

He wished that the Peacekeepers wouldn't be so rough as they quite literally threw him into the farewell room, slamming the door in his face. He sat himself on the couch, twiddling his thumbs and biding his time until his parents burst through the doors.

He still found it difficult to speak after being Reaped. He wished that he could protest, that he could've found the will to run. But he'd just forced himself onstage, his legs moving against his will.

Zairre's parents burst through the door, his sister trailing behind them. "Zai, my baby!" his mother cooed, pulling him into her arms. His father followed her example, but Mari hung back, watching cautiously.

"I'll be fine," he assured them, faking a smile. "I s-swear I'll be fine."

His mother sobbed and hugged him tighter. Zairre's father pulled back from the embrace, taking something off of his neck. "For you, son," he said with a smile.

It was Nicholas' old cog necklace, the actual cog rusty from years of being in the open air. Zairre's breath hitched when he saw it; it was a reminder of old times, a reminder of when he was still around.

Zairre blinked back a tear and took the necklace in shaking hands, fastening it around his neck with fumbling fingers. "Thank you," he whispered, unable to express his gratitude.

"Zai, you can win," his father encouraged, resting a hand on the blonde's shoulder. "Just be brave in there."

While his father was giving him the pep talk, his mother had buried her face in her hands. "It's happening again," she panicked. "I'm losing another son."

The words silenced the family. Images flashed before Zairre's eyes; the smoke, the flames, Nicolas' screaming over the sounds of falling objects. He had run, far away, and when he returned, everything had been reduced to ashes.

"Y-you won't lose me," he protested, blue eyes filling with hot, bitter tears that spilled down his face. "I'll come back."

Mari bit her lip, seemingly the only one who was processing what coming back entailed. Murder. If Zairre were to come back, he wouldn't arrive without blood on his hands.

Zairre's hands twitched at his sides, and he could hear the little devil in the back of his head yelling; "Let me out! Let me out!"

_No,_ he told it, _not now._

"I promise," he continued, "I'll do my best."

_Not until the Games_, he told the devil. _Then I'm going to need you._

"Um..." Mari muttered, eyes aimed at the floor, "can I talk to Zai alone, please?"

Their parents nodded, and with final hugs and all-but-forgotten tears, they left the room, leaving Zairre and Mari alone.

"I..." she muttered, crystalline blue eyes very much like Zairre's own aimed at a tile on the floor, "I didn't want them to hear this... but I have to say it, in case... um... you know..."

He nodded, hating how Mari's voice shook and how frail she looked and how glaringly noticeable the scar on the top of her forehead was.

_All my fault._

For the first time in years, she looked up at her younger brother, straightening her back and clenching her fists. "I'm terrified of you, Zai. And I-I hate it. It's not f-fair that I have to live in fear because of something that happened years ago."

Her words nearly broke Zairre's heart. "I'm sorry, I—"

"I don't want apologies!" she shouted, flinching afterwards as if realizing the impact of what she'd said. Taking a deep breath, she began again, her voice much quieter than before. "I want to turn back time and start over." A bittersweet laugh. "But it's too late for that now, isn't it?"

He didn't know how to respond. This was Mari, his timid, weak little sister, who he'd hurt near the point of death, standing up to him after _years_. He didn't know she had it in her to be so... brave.

Zairre grinned. "You grew up."

He could practically see the chills running down Mari's spine. She froze, hands that were formerly clenched in fists unclenching and falling to her sides. The unshed tears in her eyes gave everything away; she really _was_ terrified.

A Peacekeeper clad in white opened the door. "Miss, it's time to go. The Tribute needs to board the train."

Mari blinked back the tears and, with the slightest bit of hesitation, she tenderly wrapped her arms around Zairre. Shocked, it took him a minute to return the embrace, and they stood like that until the Peacekeeper cleared his throat, clearly getting impatient.

It was silent as his sister left the room, and with her, Zairre's last chance to apologize. Of course she wouldn't believe him, but he could've said it anyway and gotten everything off his chest. Now, Mari was gone, and he might never see her again.

Zairre grit his teeth. He refused to cry. Crying meant weakness, and in the Hunger Games, he couldn't afford to be weak.

He could hear the demon in his head taunting him, teasing him, vying for control. His hands twitched at his sides, and he closed his eyes and took a shaky breath.

"Just a little longer," he muttered to himself. "Stay sane for just a little longer."

* * *

**Well, that took for-fucking-ever. I hope the length isn't too distracting, but I really couldn't extend it without it becoming a drag to read. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed anyway. Zai's a precious little cinnamon roll... sort of. I love writing for him.**


	13. Kathryn: I'll Be Okay

**Oh, look. I remembered to update. I'm just gonna say that 8th grade is a bitch and move on with the chapter.**

* * *

**Kathryn Maibelle, District Five Female**

* * *

She couldn't help but notice how oddly quiet the waiting room was, as the emtick tick tick/em of the analog clock on the wall announced every passing second. The silence was agonizing, chipping away at her patience until she had almost none left.

Her mother violently threw open the door, and Kathryn flinched as it hit the wooden walls with a loud _bang_. Before she could comprehend what was happening, her mother threw her arms around her and pulled her close, sobbing into her shoulder.

At last, the tears that Kathryn had been awaiting started to fall, coupled with loud, ugly sobs that rang throughout the room. The tears streamed down her face and soaked into the newly washed fabric of her mother's dress.

"Katie..." her mother breathed into her ear, saying her name as if the word itself was dangerous. "I don't have much time."

Kathryn was confused. True, her mother wasn't exactly a fan of the Capitol, but the words 'I don't have much time' led her to believe that she was about to suggest something dangerous.

"M-mom," she stuttered through uneven breaths, "what's going on?"

Her mother broke from the embrace and clamped a hand over her daughter's mouth, two pairs of icy blue eyes flickering back and forth around the room. "Goodness, keep it down! You never know who's listening."

The room was bugged. Kathryn realized this and nodded in understanding, removing her mother's hand from her mouth. "Mom, I'll ask you one more time," she said quietly, faking a smile for whatever cameras happened to be hidden around the room, "What's. Going. On?"

With a deep breath, her mother began in a hushed tone. "The Head Gamemaker is psychotic. There's something off about her, and I don't know if she has mental issues or if she's just crazy. But please, Katie... Fight it. I know you can, you're a smart girl... Don't let her be the death of you."

_What a funny thing to say before I go into the Hunger Games_, Kathryn thought, because surely something else would be the death of her. Like another Tribute, or maybe starvation or thirst or some mutt.

But then again, everything went back to the Gamemakers, didn't it? Wasn't everything that happened in the Arena their fault, like pawns in a game of chess?

Kathryn smiled through her tears; an actual, genuine smile not designed to fool cameras or watching authorities. "I... I won't."

Her mother sobbed in relief, pulling Kathryn close once again and burying her nose in her daughter's black hair. Kathryn didn't hesitate to return the embrace, her smile vanishing as thoughts of the inevitable flooded her mind.

She took a silver necklace from around her neck and fastened it around Kathryn's. "For luck. Wear it in the Arena, and think of home once and a while, okay?" she said with a sad smile, almost immediately pulling Kathryn back into a hug after finishing with the necklace.

The Arena. Kathryn suddenly remembered what often happened in the Arena, and why she'd been terrified in the first place.

_I'll be okay_, she told herself, breathing deeply. _There's nobody in those Games who's smarter than me; it's basically guaranteed. I can win. I'll be okay._

She kept reminding herself of that over and over; three simple words that calmed her down. How it was possible to be calm in her situation, Kathryn didn't know, but the sensation was odd.

The Peacekeeper entered the room so silently that neither of them heard him entering. It came as quite the shock when he called "Time's up!" and roughly pulled Kathryn's mother out of the room.

""You can make it, Katie! You can—"

The door was slammed shut. Kathryn was left sitting on the couch, frozen in shock as all her fears rushed back into her mind at once.

_I'll be okay,_ she thought. _I'm going to be okay._

As she awaited her next visitors (because surely her friends would come bursting through the door screaming and crying), her mind began to wander, as it often did. What would her District partner, Eliseo, be like? What would her mentor be like? How would the Capitolites react to her?

She didn't have time to answer any of her questions, for Jillian and Kennedy, her best friends, came bursting through the door, both emotional wrecks, exactly as Kathryn had predicted.

Her moments spent with them were just as they always were, plus a few more tears; casual chatter, laughter, and an overwhelming sense of normality that made Kathryn feel right at home.

She could stay in that moment forever, despite her tear-stained cheeks and her mother's haunting opening words. Everything was normal. Everything was perfectly fine.

And then the Peacekeeper reentered the room, grabbing Jillian roughly by the arm. Taking the signal, Kennedy followed, turning around with a sad smile.

"Try not to die, Katie."

The door closed on both of them, leaving Kathryn behind with her thoughts once again.

Her hands went to her necklace, and her mind went to her mother's words. "Don't let her be the death of you."

From what she'd seen on television, the Head Gamemaker was... unusual. She had a murderous look in her eyes, and an excitement to her voice that was quite unsettling when she talked about the Games. She would make the Arena even more of a living hell than it was originally designed to be.

So, with those thoughts in mind, Kathryn stood and walked to the door, three words running through her head yet again.

_I'll be okay._

* * *

**Yeah, the chapter seems odd in terms of character's actions. But it'll be explained in due time. Trust me.**

**Kathryn comes from the mind of SYOT legend Annabeth-TheTributeThatLived, and, seriously, go check out her stories, because wow, are they amazing. **

**I have a poll up on my profile about the character's we've met so far. If you could go and vote, I'd appreciate it.**


	14. Daisy: Here to Help

**Uh... Merry Christmas?**

**Okay, I'm gonna step up my game. If I don't update within 2 weeks, spam the hell out of my PM inbox yelling at me. (BROOKE THIS MEANS YOU IM COUNTING ON YOU.) I really want to get this story going for real.**

**One more thing: I've noticed that this story has lost a lot of steam, probably because I never fucking update. So I want to try again. I'm gonna do another SYOT, this time the traditional way (first person, not first-come-first-serve, multiple POVs per chapter, basic SYOT format), with updates whenever I can. If you don't believe in me and don't want to submit, fine. I get it. But if you want to give me another chance, I'm going for it. I plan on posting it sometime soon, before my winter break ends, probably around the new year. **

**No, I'm not abandoning this; I love these characters too much, and like I said, I want to try and pick up the steam. But I want to try and do this again, with a fresh audience and a fresh cast of characters. Call me crazy, and I'll thank you. **

**ALSO I FIXED THE POLL GO VOTE ON THE POLL K THX**

**Here goes the first train chapter :)**

* * *

**Daisy Mulberry, District Eleven Female**

* * *

The sun setting over the hills of who-knows-where was an oddly calming sight, especially considering her circumstances. Daisy enjoyed the array of colors; the oranges and reds and pinks decorating the sky.

She noticed that Jackson didn't seem to be in such a good mood; he was cussing out the Capitol under his breath, as if he blamed them for everything.

He wasn't exactly wrong, but couldn't he look at the situation without blaming someone?

Their escort, Vivia, was no help either, with her firm beliefs that Daisy and Jackson were Tributes that would die in the bloodbath. She kept looking at them with the saddest of expressions, as if she was already predicting how much money people would lose by betting on them.

This became especially apparent during their first meal on the train. Their mentors were named Laurel and Alec, and the former preferred speaking out while the latter was unusually quiet. Even despite Laurel's general outgoing demeanor and Vivia's constant comments, the table was eerily quiet.

Daisy found herself staring out the window of the car, watching the trees pass. Her beloved home in Eleven was far behind, along with her life as she knew it.

She took another bite of her exotic Capitol meal in silence, waiting for somebody to initiate a conversation.

Luckily, she didn't have to wait long.

Jackson slammed his knife into to the wooden table blade-first, so the hilt of the knife stood up by itself. "Fuckin' Capitol... sendin' us here..." he muttered, just loud enough for Daisy to hear. Vivia covered her mouth with her hand, gasping in shock.

"Jackson! That is not something for a little boy to say!"

He turned his glare on the poor Escort, steam practically coming out of his ears. "I'm not a little kid, lady."

_What an attitude he has_, Daisy thought. _Mom would hate him._

The thought of her mother sent a sharp ache into her gut, accompanied by memories of smiles and laughter and happiness.

"No negative thoughts," she whispered to herself, ignoring the screaming match that had erupted between her Escort and her District partner. "Stay positive."

That's what her mother would've told her, anyway.

"U-um, can we not—" she was cut off by Jackson, who'd turned to her.

"Daisy, am I a little boy?"

She could feel her face heating up. If she said yes, she got on Jackson's bad side, and if she said no, she got on Vivia's. She'd never really liked situations like these; they always ended with someone unhappy.

"W-well, um, I don't really think so, b-but Vivia could see you a little differently."

He blinked, an incredibly confused expression on his face. "Yeah, but who do you agree with?"

Daisy giggled. "Neither of you?"

He groaned, and at his comically distressed expression, Laurel started laughing, only to be slapped on the arm by Alec and told to quiet down. Daisy smiled, an oddly calm feeling washing over her.

If she was going to die in a few days, at least she could spend some of her final moments with these wonderful people.

Vivia huffed and turned to the two Mentors. "If the only other mature adults in this room are going to behave like _children_, then our Tributes are more dead than they already are. I mean, _look_ at them. So tiny, no meat on their bones. Honestly, it's like they're already corpses." She wrinkled her nose in disgust. "I should tell every sponsor I'd tried to ring in that they should go bet on another District. I bet Two is promising again this year."

Jackson stood up suddenly, knocking his chair back. "Well, ya know what? If you're gonna be a bitch, I don't have to stay here and take this shit. I'm done." With that, he stormed out of the dining car, slamming the door behind him. Three out of four remaining people in the car looked shocked; Laurel just looked amused.

"Honestly, the nerve of that boy," Vivia muttered, picking at her food as if nothing had happened. Alec looked like he was trying to follow her example, though his gaze drifted to the door every two seconds.

Daisy felt guilty, though she couldn't fathom why. It wasn't like she could stop Jackson's temper; if she'd learned anything about him in the past few hours, it was that he couldn't be calmed down once he got fired up.

But that wouldn't stop her from trying.

"Excuse me," she said, standing up, "but I think I'll follow him."

"Good luck with that," Laurel scoffed, only to receive yet another slap on the arm from Alec.

It didn't take long for Daisy to find Jackson; he was standing just outside of the dining car, on the platform that connected it to their rooms. A fierce wind blew Daisy's dark brown hair in front of her face and pushed the clouds past them. The sun had fallen lower in the sky, just barely seen above the trees, painting the sky in a myriad of colors.

She stood next to him in silence, taking in the summer air and the scent of the pine trees. not wanting to speak for fear of ruining such a beautiful silence.

But she had to say _something_.

"You know, you've made quite a name for yourself," she began, her hushed voice just barely heard over the howling wind. "You basically called out the Capitol at the Reaping earlier, and after Vivia's reactions to what you said, I doubt she'll keep quiet."

Jackson laughed bitterly, staring out into the distance. "Do you honestly think I care?"

Daisy considered her words carefully; one wrong step and Jackson would go storming off again. He was like a bomb she had to defuse, and if she cut the wrong wire... _boom._

"W-well, no..." she said, tapping her fingers on the railing. "But that's not a bad thing, is it?"

He gave her a glare, but Daisy was just thankful for the eye contact. "What do you mean?"

"Um, you're really confident in yourself... and you're so brave about what you say..." she began, delighted when his angry expression started to change into a calmer one. "I really can't say that stuff about myself."

Jackson was silent, staring at the ground as he took in the meaning of her words, searching her face for any signs of dishonesty. But Daisy was sincere; she always was. If she wasn't sincere, she wasn't talking.

"You mean all that?"

Daisy nodded, a small smile creeping across her face. "Uh huh."

They stood in silence for a while, watching as the sun disappeared behind the tree line, taking its colors with it. Stars flickered in and out of existence, and the moon bathed the scene in a faint otherworldly glow.

She began to wonder; was this what it was like to have a brother? Standing in companionable silence, no words necessary?

"Hey, Jackson," Daisy said cautiously, her grip tightening slightly on the rail, "Can you apologize to Vivia for me tomorrow morning?"

His glare was back. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

Daisy gulped. "N-no, I think you're right, of course, b-but it'd be in our best interests if one of three people helping us was on y-your side."

He rolled his eyes. "Shit, you're right, aren't you?"

Daisy just shrugged. In all honesty, she'd forgotten about what Jackson and Vivia were fighting about a while ago; she just wanted everyone on the train to be happy, and if achieving that meant spouting nonsense, she'd do it.

Jackson huffed. "I'll think about it."

Daisy grinned; it was a win in her book.

The dining car door creaked open, and Alec poked his head out. "Hey, guys, the Reaping recaps are on. You should come in and watch."

Daisy turned around, looking back to make sure Jackson was following her. "You coming?"

"I'll catch up," he replied, eyes fixated on the stars above. Daisy waited for a second before following Alec inside, planning to hold Jackson to his words.

This time tomorrow everyone would be happy. And that was what she lived for; didn't her mother raise her to be there to help people be happy?

* * *

**ENDING IS CHEESY AF BUT MEH**

**I didn't intend on giving Daisy and Jackson such a good relationship; it just happened. As I was reading over their forms, I realized how different they were, and they reminded me of two really close siblings I know in real life, so... this happened. I'm really proud of this chapter, actually. **

**So... yeah. New SYOT coming around the new year, probably. And I intend on updating it whenever I can. **

**And my new year's resolution is to update more in general, so... I guess I'd better get working on the next chapter for this story. Hope you liked this one. **


	15. Julianna: Underestimation

**Less than a month. I feel so accomplished. (Thanks, Lia, for reminding me.)**

**Let's get down to business (TO DEFEAT THE HUNS); this is the chapter where you all see the full Reapings. So without further ado... here we go.**

* * *

**Julianna Rose, District Two Female**

* * *

Julianna found it quite funny that Meshindi, the favorite of every single trainer at the Academy, didn't seem as focused on the Reapings as she did. Maybe it was that she wanted to collect as much information on her competition as possible, or maybe he was just overconfident. Either way, she thought he wasn't that bright.

"Hey, maybe you should pay a little more attention. They're about to start."

Meshindi rolled his eyes. "Relax. It's just Julian Jacobs talking. I don't have to pay attention until they show the Districts."

She felt her face heat up; Julianna was rarely told she was wrong. "Well, he might say something important, or—"

"Nothing he says is ever important."

She huffed and crossed her arms. From the few hours she'd spent with him, Julianna could already tell that he wouldn't be someone to talk to or socialize with. An ally, nothing more.

She opened her mouth to retort, but Julian Jacobs was introducing District One. "There, it's starting. Happy?" Her last statement was meant as a joke, but Meshindi didn't seem to take it that way, simply nodding, eyes on the screen.

The girl was gorgeous, with shoulder-length dirty blonde hair, tan skin, and a bright smile. She radiated confidence, her voice high and clear as she introduced herself as Chardonnay Luton. Julianna couldn't help but be a bit jealous of her ease in front of the camera, and how comfortable she looked just standing on that stage. She wished she could say the same for herself.

The boy was younger than the average Career, wearing a smirk that, in Julianna's opinion, was far too cocky for his own good. It didn't help that his blonde hair was slicked back and he wore a tuxedo, of all things. As he introduced himself as Aedan Prince Hematite and somebody yelled at him for taking their spot, he just shrugged and grinned. Overconfident.

"Don't underestimate that one," Meshindi said, frowning. "The Capitol loves seeing younger Tributes get kills. If he Volunteered, he's trained. Give him a day in the arena to get a kill, and his sponsors start rolling in."

Julianna was speechless. She hadn't thought of that. "You're good," she remarked, raising her eyebrows.

Meshindi simply shrugged. "Nah."

As they listened to Julian Jacobs' commentary, and Meshindi ignored all of her attempts at small talk, she found herself confused by his humility, his silence; something so unlike the other boys of Two.

Julianna sort of zoned out when District Two came on the screen. She'd never liked seeing herself in places other than a mirror. She didn't like the way she looked.

With a glance over at her District partner, she realized that he was just as uninterested, and she knew why; he'd already seen all he needed to see about Julianna. Nothing about her on the screen was interesting to him.

The awkward silence grew as they watched District Three. Zenia Cerys seemed surprisingly accepting of being Reaped for a little girl, and Zairre Cou...

"What's with that look in his eyes?" Julianna muttered to herself, catching Meshindi's attention. It seemed he'd noticed it too, as a frown was forming on his face.

"We have to watch out for him," Meshindi said. Julianna rolled her eyes. _No shit, wise guy_, she thought.

District Four came onscreen, and Julianna was taken aback by how small Anna-Marie Clear was. Her young-looking face was set in a determined expression. Julianna realized it almost immediately; this girl was not one to be messed with.

"Let's just hope that one's in the Career alliance," she said to her District partner, who, once again, was taking in everything about the person onscreen and not really paying attention to anything else. "If she's against us, I feel like we'll be in trouble—_oh my god, that boy is wearing a dress_."

Sure enough, Spynder Corbin confidently walked onstage, wearing the brightest yellow dress that Julianna had ever seen, and... were those heels? What was even more surprising, however, was that nobody volunteered to take his place. In District Four. Surely, someone would step up... but nobody did.

As Spynder was cussing out someone who'd looked at him the wrong way, Meshindi started laughing, muttering something about Spynder being ridiculous. Julianna frowned; he wasn't that bad.

District Five was next, and fairly standard. Kathryn Maibelle was as pale as a ghost as she walked onstage, practically trembling, clearly terrified. And Eliseo Markham was clearly hiding panic.

District Six was a little more unconventional; the boy, Farren Windio, looked like he'd expected his name to be pulled. It was something odd to see on the face of someone from the Outer Districts, where being Reaped often resulted in death. Hestia Hepburn, poor little girl, fainted after hearing her name called; the Escort seemed to panic, and the Reaping cut away almost immediately.

"Should we watch out for the boy?" she asked, knowing that Meshindi would probably know what to do about him.

He shook his head, surprisingly, a small smile on his face. "No... that kid's probably gonna die early. Look at him... kinda scrawny, isn't he? And he's a little too cocky. It'll get him killed."

Once again, Julianna found herself incredibly impressed by Meshindi's analysis. When she took a better look at Farren, she realized that he was correct; Farren's arrogance would kill him.

District Seven was ridiculous. Two Volunteers, both of them looking weak and easy to break. Julianna smiled; two free kills for her. Eleanor Ray and Dominick Reece wouldn't be a problem.

District Eight brought forward Jeremiah Paradise, whose reaction to hearing his name was unnervingly happy. He wore a huge grin as he stepped onto the stage, smiling and waving at the rest of his silent District. Hazel Patch was weird, too, completely devoid of emotion as she stepped onto the stage. Her face was blank, her expression neutral.

Julianna vastly preferred the boy from District Nine, Nicolas Wolwinds, because even though the Peacekeepers had to take him onstage, he seemed somewhat normal, and it was rather refreshing. Andromeda Willison was just downright creepy, laughing at the idea of being Reaped.

"The girl is just... no," she said, trying to start a conversation with Meshindi; she didn't like how oddly silent he was, and talking to him was quite nice. "I don't like her."

The look on his face was almost comical; he looked terrified. "Yeah, me neither..." he said, his voice quiet.

Thankfully, DIstrict Ten was normal. Julianna thought that Kattel Holstein and Hali Verengo were nothing special; the typical scared Tributes. Eleven was similar, though Jackson Mereddy cursed out the Capitol and poor Daisy Mulberry looked like she was going to faint.

"He looks kinda brave, doesn't he?" Julianna remarked at the Twelve boy, Homeland Favre, who looked angry. Nanette Fellin just tried to hold herself together. Both of Twelve's Tributes looked surprisingly different from the ones of the past; much more confident, strong.

"I'd watch out for both of them," Meshindi remarked, clearly disinterested. "Lot of psychos this year, huh?"

Julianna nodded. So many of the Tributes were unconventional, strong-looking. "And a lot of them look strong."

Meshindi stood up and turned off the television, headed for his room. Julianna followed, grabbing his arm. "Wait! Shouldn't we talk about the Tributes more, or discuss the Career alliance or—"

He turned around and met her eyes, towering over her. Julianna froze, motionless as Meshindi ripped his arm from her grip and walked away, silent.

Julianna took a deep breath, glancing back at the television screen, where Julian Jacobs was offering final commentary. She made sure to listen, taking in every opinion, every observation and storing it far away in her mind.

Her mother didn't sacrifice everything for her to train for Julianna to underestimate anyone.

**I chose some really tough D2 Tributes to write for, didn't I. I tried to have this up in 2 weeks, but Julianna and Meshindi decided that they'd be hard to get perfect (I think it's this scenario; kinda hard to show character here). And aside from that, I had to get every. Other. Tribute. Perfect. Along with them. So... here's the end result. I'm kind of happy with how it turned out. (Also, Meshindi... more about him will be revealed when his POV comes. I don't think you got a full idea of who he is from this chapter.)**

**I felt like Julianna would be the best person to do the Reaping recaps from... she and Meshindi are both very analytical, so they'd naturally get the best looks at their competition together. **

**My other SYOT is also filled up and running, and I'm determined to make this one get to the Games before that one does. I'm going to alternate writing chapters for this and that, so let's hope my system works. **

**Also, I have a request; if you've got a Tribute in this story and you're still sticking with me, would you mind reviewing or something and just letting me know you're still here? I know I'm begging but I don't care because I just want to see who's still reading. Just... say who you like the most so far or something. Yeah. **


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